by D A Kent
The curtain wall of the castle ran some thirty feet high and eight feet thick. It was crenellated and had four spire-tipped towers at each point of weakness. The castle gate was iron-bound oak with supporting towers, a killing ground and an inner oak gate of similar craft led into the main courtyard of the castle. To the left, Dieter noted a stable yard and barracks. To the right, a bake house and a forge which was now a garage. Ahead was the castle proper, the citadel towering over them as if seeking to match itself with the surrounding mountains.
Wirth smiled at him. ‘A little kingdom of our own.’
‘Quite a place,’ murmured Dieter.
‘Thought you’d like it. The original plans were set out by Ludwig II, and then my family brought them to fruition.
DerMarchenkonig, also known as Mad King Ludwig. Appropriate for the insane world he now seemed to inhabit, thought Dieter, following Wirth inside.
‘Our little museum is usually open by appointment only; it’s just outside the castle walls,’ explained Wirth. ‘I’ll take you round after I’ve made the introductions.’
The castle was staffed by men of military bearing, for the most part in their late twenties and early thirties, with a sprinkling of officer corps and the usual run of blonde milkmaids with regulation braids and heavy thighs. Despite the lack of uniforms, and the addition of plastered-on smiles and cheerful faces, the Castle was clearly military or rather para-military (as in SS, Dieter thought).
He took it all in, his mind in a whirl, before finally asking Wirth when they were in a small courtyard where ivy crawled up the walls and leaded windows faced each other in a blank manner:
‘Tell me, how does this escape the attention of the Allies?’
‘They have enough to do in Berlin, worrying about each other. We keep our heads down and our noses clean, and the local people support us.’ Wirth brushed an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘Well, for the most part. There were a couple of accidents last year, before we got under way properly.’
‘I see.’
Wirth added: ‘By the same token, nothing much escapes our notice. We have intelligence coming in from everywhere. You’re inside the nerve centre, my young friend. Exciting, isn’t it?’
Dieter nodded, thinking privately that that was not the way he would have described it.
On the way to lunch in what Wirth described as ‘the works canteen,’ but which was one of the castle’s ante-rooms, laid out as a formal dining room, Wirth stopped at one of the desks, frowning, and spoke to Karl Adler, a young man of around Dieter’s age.
‘Yes, this is utter garbage,’ he agreed. ‘Telephone those effete creatures in Cairo. Tell them we’re not being fobbed off with it anymore.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Adler, reaching for the telephone immediately.
In Cairo, Otto held the receiver away from his ear, wincing slightly.
‘One of Wirth’s minions,’ he explained, as he replaced it. ‘Not impressed with our bulletin. Didn’t mince his words. Wants higher grade intelligence. But they’re not paying for it.’
Alaikum frowned. ‘Well, unless they pay, they can whistle for it. Although I do think it might be time for another meeting with our friends in Tel Aviv. Want to make the call?’
In the bar in Chartrettes, Sol replaced the receiver after a difficult conversation with David. Things were clearly heating up. Alaikum was stirring the pot. He was a little weasel. It was a great shame, Sol thought, that there was no competition. There was no choice but to use them, perfidious and unreliable as they were. There should be competition; he had had a few ideas about that. Maybe this was the time to talk them through with Gunn and Sylvia. He had come out to buy some cigarettes and to give the couple some time alone. They had had a productive couple of days, he thought, time well spent. Neither of them should be under any illusion now as to the road ahead.
Sylvia and Gunn had been taking advantage of Sol’s absence to ‘christen’ the kitchen, the last room on their list. The attics, cellar and outhouses could wait. Gunn had just lifted her down from the counter when the door opened. He hastily zipped up her dress. Sol decided to be tactful, simply raising an eyebrow.
‘A word,’ he said to Gunn.
Sylvia wandered into the garden, to pick some fruit for pudding. She hadn’t been required at all of their discussions, but had enjoyed contributing to those where she was needed. She could sense their idyll at the demeure was coming to an end for now. Her way of coping with that was to live for the moment. Gunn had negotiated leave at Christmas.
‘Out of the question,’ Sol had growled.
‘Something of a sine qua non, old boy,’ Gunn had told him. ‘And I haven’t imposed any other conditions, have I? You may have noticed that there are two things in my life to which I attach importance. Sylvia is the first. With the Horch a very close second.’
‘You and that girl. You can have ten days. That’s it.’
‘So that’s not so bad, is it, sweetheart? We’ll have Christmas together. Breaks it up a bit,’ Gunn had told Sylvia. ‘We’ll go to Dad’s in Brighton. You’ll love it. And then maybe you can come out to me at Easter, or we could meet somewhere in the middle. Somewhere neither of us has been.’
In the kitchen, Sol handed Gunn a cigarette and a light.
‘You and I need to get busy. We have to deal with a situation in Damascus and then we have to kick the pants of a couple of nancy boy freelance agents in Cairo, who are getting a little above themselves.’
‘Noted.’ Gunn drew deep on his cigarette. ‘Which comes first?’
‘Damascus.’ Sol seemed to see into the miles to the south and the east as if he could see the city. ‘Nazis keep floating to the surface like pond life. Problem is, they seem to be in positions to do us damage by proxy. The Arabs don’t like Jews. They never have, and they like us even less now we’re home.’
‘So, the Krauts are taking advantage of that to push a little.’
‘Of course,’ Sol grinned, a baring of the teeth. ‘Every now and then we have to push back. David will have transport arrangements and another briefing for us this evening. We’ll ring him from the bar later. Might be an idea to put a telephone line in here.’
‘Chartrettes was once a Gestapo listening post,’ Sylvia offered as she came back into the kitchen and started slicing up fruit. ‘The outbuildings here could be used for something like that.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Sol nodded, stealing a piece of apple. He winced at its sourness. ‘Be good for security too. It would give the French the sense that we are being polite in our behaviour. I’ll talk to David; we might get the quarter-master to have a look.’
‘You’ll have to sweet-talk the mayor, Sylv,’ said Gunn. ‘Try and keep him on side, if we’re going to do something like that here.’
‘Might be an idea, she agreed, vaguely. She was trying to keep busy, finishing the inventory for Marguerite, making the dinner and setting the table. She went down to the cellar and found a decent bottle of Bordeaux. Gunn looked over at her speculatively. She was putting an incredibly brave face on things. He loved her for that and so many other things. He couldn’t deny though that he was excited about the scenarios Sol had outlined, having fought in Syria in the war. He was intrigued by the operation Alaikum and Otto were running in the Middle East. They had cornered the market. Clements International could do something similar with far more integrity and professionalism, he thought.
Sol asked Gunn, on the way to the café, whether he was going to let Sylvia have the Horch.
‘Debatable,’ Gunn replied. ‘Not sure about letting her loose on that gear box.’
Inside the castle which King Ludwig had once envisaged as a base for hunting, Wirth and Dieter were continuing with their exploration after a light lunch. Wirth had been impressed by Dieter’s call to Father Hoechst, in which he introduced himself as his new handler.
‘Concise and clear, and you didn’t overload him with information. You’ll be an excellent addition to our team. Now, let’s
take a short stroll to our little museum. You’ll like it.’
Dieter feigned interest in several cabinets of rings inscribed with runes. One looked much like another. The same applied to a collection of hunting horns. Wirth wasn’t fooled. He put a hand on Dieter’s shoulder and steered him casually into a room with a sign on the door saying ‘Anthropology,’ saying ‘You’ll find this fascinating.’
There was an overpowering smell of formaldehyde. Dieter struggled with rising nausea as he looked around.
‘Everything we need to prove the superiority of the Aryan race,’ Wirth told him. He explained that the ‘specimens’ had been obtained from a small camp in Poland. They were all Jews. They had been kept apart from the other prisoners, to avoid contamination, as there had been an outbreak of typhus in the camp. They had been gassed, then immediately preserved, and brought here so that research could be undertaken. The specimens had arrived with the Allies hard on their heels and were spirited away into underground vaults.
‘There is much still to be done,’ Wirth explained, nodding politely to a girl in a white coat.
Dieter excused himself and rushed outside for a cigarette. Wirth followed him.
‘I do hope you are sympathetic to our philosophy, my young friend,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes,’ Dieter managed to reassure him. ‘Rather an early start this morning and I’m fighting off a cold. I’d very much like to go back in and see the rest of the museum.’
The last part of the museum was dedicated to the pre war expeditions to Tibet and India, in search of occult weaponry and ideas and evidence to support the racial theories of the regime. Dieter shook his head at the thought of Wirth measuring the head and noting the physical characteristics of a Tibetan guide. He decided he was not one for the up close and personal; he preferred a pristine sheet of crisp paper with numbers and ideas and theories set out in black ink. Nonetheless, he was careful to express a deep fascination for the flora and fauna Wirth and his colleagues had brought back.
Declining Wirth’s offer to join him and some colleagues for a session of deep meditation in the castle, Dieter instead embarked on a brisk walk around the grounds. He wondered what he had let himself in for. There was no way out now, that was for sure.
Much later, after a sumptuous banquet in the castle keep, Dieter and Wirth were sitting in deep armchairs in front of a roaring fire, with a glass of vintage brandy each. Wirth looked across at him thoughtfully. He wasn’t convinced Dieter was a ‘believer.’ He believed he had his measure; money was the motivation for this young man. He would do, for their purposes, and would be easy to eliminate should he no longer fit the bill.
Dieter was struggling to keep awake after his early start, so, having drained his glass, he bade his host good night and made his way to his room. It had been designed for one of the princes, Wirth had told him. The walls were decorated with frescoes depicting Teutonic knights. A fire was crackling in the grate and his bed had been turned down. He was confident that, if he had blotted his copybook with Wirth earlier, he had rectified the position. With that comforting thought, he fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 24
Rainer Matthaus, a former member of the SS and now a resident of Damascus, sat in his apartment not far from the old citadel, sipping hibiscus tea and thinking of home. He was listening to German lieder song cycles on a gramophone a friend had given him before he had left Germany in early 1945. His loyalty had stopped dead with the failure of the winter offensive into the Ardennes. ‘Nuts.’ That expression still echoed in his memory.
He set down his tea cup, watching the fan above his head as it barely stirred the evening air. Damascus, as he had learned on arrival, derived from an old Aramaic name Darmesq, which apparently meant ‘well-watered place.’ He had not been well-watered of late. His supply of schnapps and wine were close to the heeltaps. He could not abide heeltaps and had few safe means of procuring further supplies. Money was not an issue, and his skills with a knife, a garrotte fashioned from a rosary and a gun were in well-rewarded demand from various government agencies. He was often sub-contracted out to Arab governments who appreciated the idea of a German killing Israelis.
His bones were getting weary; he could not last forever. His last job had been close – a farm in the hills overlooking Galilee, a young farmer of military age and his wife and child. He had taken a moment too long, only making the border by a fraying of his nerves and coat tails. He had a feeling somebody was coming for him. The sun was going down and the call to prayer echoed across his quarter. He frowned. He rolled off his bed and went to shut the window. He looked down; there was barely anybody about. The air was still, as if expectant. He shut the window, and moved over towards his bureau. He took out a velvet cloth. He unwrapped it and took comfort in the weight of a Browning 9mm. It was in good condition with a full clip and three spare. Enough for a job and to get away. This time, it would have to be enough to get away.
In Cairo, Alaikum was putting together a report for Wirth; even if he said so himself, it was a work of genius. There was enough in there to make Wirth believe he was getting the inside story, but not enough to arouse any suspicions in his Israeli paymasters, who had upped their subscription a little. They could definitely do better.
‘Not heard from old Matthaus in Damascus for a while,’ Otto commented. ‘Seems to have gone rather quiet.’
‘That’s not like him,’ Alaikum agreed. ‘Ask around, see if anyone knows anything.’
‘Early start tomorrow from what David was saying,’ Gunn remarked to Sol, on the way back to the demeure. Sylvia had told him earlier in bed that she would love to have gone with them. A step too far for Sol, Gunn thought. Anyway, he needed to keep his wits about him on assignments like this.
Whilst putting the finishing touches to the pudding, Sylvia was thinking about the coming weeks. Tomorrow she was meeting the mayor, and she was meeting Sol’s quarter-master in a fortnight, to discuss plans for Chartrettes. That left her with ample time to get down to Cognac and back. Aunt Hortense had been so dismissive about her mother’s family and she had scarcely known them. There were no other relatives on that side, as far as she knew, but perhaps someone was around who would remember them. She would have to go back to London after that. In some ways she was looking forward to getting back to Clements.
‘Thought you said you couldn’t cook, Sylv,’ Gunn said, after pudding. ‘That was lovely.’
‘Oh, I just made it up.’ Sylvia wandered back into the kitchen, to tidy up. She needed to keep busy.
Gunn was packing, lightly and efficiently, under Sol’s approving watch. There would be no loitering in ancient ruins on this trip. They had checked out of the fleapit with their luggage and the camera equipment. Sylvia would have to take it all back to England with her. He took the Tula apart, cleaning out any dust and debris. Probably imagined, as Sol observed, a little grumpily, but that was Gunn’s way.
Sol passed over the flimsy file on Matthaus. Gun glanced over it once, and then read it properly on second glance. He looked over at Sol.
‘Real charmer, isn’t he?’
‘A delight. A real low life schmuck.’ Sol chewed on a finger, a sign of irritation. ‘And the Syrians, amongst others, love him.’
‘Sounds as if we’ll have our work cut out then.’
Winifred Cumberland kicked the door open at St Anne’s Court, almost tripping over Galland. Juncker woke with a start. Business had been quiet since the Olympics. He seemed to have a lot more competition too. Who on earth was this? Women rarely ventured into his establishment.
‘I thought you might have had some news for me on Edward,’ Winifred said testily. ‘He and his wretched father have left me in a real mess.’
Juncker tried to think quickly; he had drunk far too much whisky. He had nothing for her on Edward. Louis had been over to see him again, to put the ‘frighteners’ on him, telling him he would kill him – he had already taken out a contract on him, apparently - if he ever saw him anywhere near
his office again.
‘His girlfriend is pregnant,’ Winifred went on. ‘Her family are contemplating a breach of promise case against us. That’ll need money. And that idiot Pole won’t let me anywhere near the firm. Says he has a lot to sort out first. I’m going to be destitute, on the streets.’
Juncker couldn’t help feeling a degree of schadenfreude. After the camaraderie of chess club on the Isle of Man, Cumberland had dropped him with icy disdain. He owed the family nothing. Unless she was proposing to pay him, and to pay him well, he would leave matters in abeyance.
‘It’s possible,’ Winifred told him, ‘that he has gone off after that little piece he’s always carried a torch for.’
Juncker was really losing interest now; he was going to have to make some excuse to extract this awful woman from his premises.
‘Her name’s Sylvia Fordred. Clements Investigations. Little bitch.’
Juncker did remember the name Clements; it had cropped up in some of the litigation files that Louis had deposited with him. He always read them diligently, just in case there was any material he could use against somebody. He had seen the name in another context recently although he could not remember where. He wrote the details down carefully in his notebook and then hustled Winifred out of his shop, closing the door firmly after her.
Once he had seen her safely down the street, he poured Galland a saucer of whisky to keep him quiet and, as he did not expect any customers that afternoon, sat down to think things through without that infernal woman jabbering away. He didn’t believe for one moment that she was on her beam ends. George had been filtering money out of the practice for years, for nefarious purposes. He had admitted as much over a whisky too many. Juncker’s natural inclination was to be lazy and to let sleeping dogs lie, but Wirth would not leave him alone indefinitely. Louis had to be dealt with, one way or another. Granted, a beating from some of the lads who had dished the Black Shirts nicely in Cable Street was not to be recommended. London’s traffic was bad, the crowds were still pressing. Maybe Louis could fall under a bus. Provided he had told nobody else where the files were, nobody would know where they were.
